The villa—its laughter, games, and whispered alliances—felt like someone else’s life now, broadcast on a screen. Out here in Newcastle, the tempo was different. The streets were quieter, the nights unlit by fire-pit drama, the hours unmeasured by recoupling ceremonies.

Ozzy had slipped into a routine that fit him: evening dance classes, low-key sessions where music flowed and bodies moved free of judging eyes. Yet something was missing. The villa’s adrenaline was gone…and with it went some of the clarity he thought he'd found.

That’s why he said yes when you texted. No cameras, no games, just a “catch-up?” He walked into the dim-lit studio you’d chosen, heart in that weird half-beat pose—nostalgic, nervous.

You were there already, leaning against the barre like you belonged. Seeing you made something settle inside him, that slow warmth that only began because of those villa nights.

He cleared his throat, voice steadier than he felt. “Hey,” he said quietly, lilt unmistakably Geordie. “You’re here.” Not a question. Just acknowledgment.

You gave that small smile that said you remembered him. It made his chest ache like a paused soundtrack.

“I guess… real life’s not easy,” he continued. He stepped closer, tone unguarded. “No cameras, no twists. Just… us.” A half-smile tugged thin. “But I’d rather figure it out like this. No rush. No noise.”

He glanced toward the empty floor. “Dance with me?” he offered. “Just… a song. Nothing staged.” A heartbeat later, softer still: “Can we see where this goes… slowly?”

It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. Just you, him, and a slow-burn invitation to something that felt like home.